


Glass People In Stone Houses

by HenryMercury



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 0.2 seconds of storyline, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bottom Lucius Malfoy, Cunnilingus, Dominance, Domme Narcissa, Double Penetration, F/M, Femdom, Filth, Humiliation, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, PWP (Proofreading What Proofreading), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyjuice Potion, Post-War, Rough Sex, Self-cest, Sex Toys, Smut, Spanking, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury
Summary: Lucius asks in absentia, with an elegant black gift box and no card.
Relationships: Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	Glass People In Stone Houses

**Author's Note:**

> Some proper filth.

i. 

Lucius asks in absentia—with an elegant black gift box and no card. Narcissa finds it on the white marble surface of her vanity when she returns from a visit to Draco’s new London home. It means Lucius has been into her rooms while she’s been away. She does not appreciate the intrusion.

Inside the box is a glass baton. It is hand-crafted; certainly expensive; around six inches in length, and gently ribbed. It is smallest at the tip and then widens, just the way she likes. It’s thicker than Lucius—of course—and far more aesthetically pleasing, with fine lavender swirls trapped inside like a bouquet in amber.

Lucius is tinkering in his laboratory—attempting to distil some kind of drinkable spirit, Narcissa believes—so she goes to the sitting room with a book. She leaves the box on the coffee table, lid in place. She doesn’t _wait_ for him, per se. She’d be content to read her book for the entire evening. It is, in fact, her intention to do so.

When he’s done playing about, Lucius shuffles into the main living rooms. He gravitates toward the fire Narcissa has been cultivating in the grate of her favourite sitting room. So like a moth, he is—feeble, yet grandly deluded about his own ability to survive an affair with flame.

Or perhaps not deluded at all. Perhaps he is simply desperate to feel himself burning.

When he registers the box on the table, Lucius’ ears turn red and he lowers his eyes to the floor. He does not address her. She reads another page before, satisfied with his patience, she speaks:

“You wish to resume our arrangement.”

They have never been terribly direct in their communication, but then they have never needed to be. Pureblood high society is a shifting maze of euphemism, implication, emphasis by omission—and its language is the mother tongue of Blacks and Malfoys alike.

“Yes,” says Lucius. “Please.”

“You understand that it was your own failings which ever brought it to an end?”

Lucius risks a glance up at her. But Narcissa keeps her face impassive; a stonewalling expression she learned from the best (and the worst).

“Eyes down,” she says. The words are cold, but not so cold as to imply she’s put any real effort into reprimanding him. That is just what he wants, and he does not yet deserve it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I know,” she tells him. “A very sorry man indeed. I hope you don’t consider this a way of reinforcing the lessons you’ve learned these past years; humiliation has never stopped you from remaking your mistakes.”

“No, Mistress.”

Narcissa suppresses a shiver at the word. The way it falls so easily, so _instinctively_ from his lips. Lucius may have spent years pretending to be a man of pride and power, but she knows better than anyone the bootlicking, whimpering creature he is beneath that surface. Not very far beneath it, nowadays.

“Well,” Narcissa says, “I suppose we’ll see whether or not that’s true. Why are you standing?”

Lucius drops to his knees with a muffled clunk. The floorboards beneath the lush carpet are old, dark, wide, and creaky when they want to be.

He’s far better when he’s kneeling. Although Narcissa rakes her eyes over him appreciatively (at liberty to do so while his eyes remain trained on the floor in front of him) she does not tell him how much she prefers him this way. What would her praise mean if it were so easy to earn?

“I wish to test your little offering,” she says. “See if it’s worth my time. Bring it to me.”

Lucius crawls forth on all fours, his long hair swishing around his face and dragging across the floor. He reaches the table, picks up the box and then shuffles the rest of the way on his knees. Once he is stationed in front of her, he ducks his head and holds up the box. Images flash through Narcissa’s mind of him offering up tribute after tribute to the Dark Lord with a similar grovelling reverence: an intercepted letter; a cursed artefact; a manor to stay in; his son’s wrist; his own wand; his family’s lives. She plucks the box out of his hands, careful not to let their fingers touch.

“Back,” she orders, a shard of the anger she usually holds below the surface cutting through. “Somewhere I don’t have to look at you.”

Lucius scrambles around behind one of the other armchairs, waiting there like a fearful crup. Narcissa takes a patient few breaths and reminds herself that the Dark Lord is no longer in their life. She is Mistress of this place again, and there is no one her husband could choose over her who would have him. He will not— _cannot_ —betray her.

She lays her book down carefully, rearranges her robes for better access, and then picks up her wand, opening the box and taking out the object inside. She adds a layer of slick to the outside of it with a wordless flick of her wand before putting the wand next to the book. A thrill of anticipation goes through her as it occurs to her that she really is going to do this again. It’s been so long since she could; so long since she even felt like flesh and blood capable of housing desire, rather than a shadow.

“Shut your eyes,” she says to Lucius. “Don’t make me waste my time blindfolding you.”

“Mistress,” he says in acquiescence. She can see the edge of his face peeking out from behind the chair. His eyelids, milky and threaded with blue veins, flutter shut. The blond of his lashes stands out against the dark purple beneath his eyes. She judges him for the lines on his face, as well as the lines on hers.

She moves her free hand down between her legs, which she allows to fall open. She shivers as her nails skate over her inner thighs. With the glass rod, she nudges at her clitoris, feeling the smooth coolness of the lubricated glass, easing the slightest pressure on and off. She hums quietly at the sensations it brings, and watches the way Lucius stiffens in his place at the sound. She replaces it with light circling pressure from the fingers of her other hand, and lets the glass trail lower, between the labia to press at her opening. She eases the tip of it inside herself with the utmost patience. Narcissa has never liked to be rushed, especially not when it comes to the first burning press of penetration, when she’s working her way up to the moment where, in a perfect jolt, she is properly breached. The girth of the glass tip is just right. She lets out a soft moan of appreciation, and then another at the pleasure of knowing just what one sound from her will be doing to Lucius.

The length of the ornamental dildo slides in and in, until pushing it any deeper would be uncomfortable. Narcissa angles it slightly so that on the outward stroke it slides against her walls feeling for tender spots, pausing to rock and twist the glass against one when she encounters it. Small wet sounds accompany the movements as she speeds them up, chasing the delicious tension that builds with each one.

“ _Oh_ , yes,” she sighs, and Lucius emits a high, needy sound. “Silence,” she snaps at him, the rhythm of her hands faltering. “Losing your composure so easily… no wonder your weakness has always been preyed upon. People see it in your eyes, your gait: a thin façade of a man, transparent as glass, who can’t even keep his mouth shut and wait while his wife pleasures herself. I had thought I might offer you a glimpse, but it’s clear you haven’t the self-control to be trusted with one.”

Lucius whimpers, and the pure neediness of the sound sends a fizz of hot arousal through her. His pleasure is hers to control.

Rubbing more frantically at her clitoris, she resumes moving the dildo in and out. It glides easily now that she’s more open for it. She breathes heavily through the wonderful friction, the slight snag of the wider sections at her opening. She’s no masochist, not really—but that edge of pain has always been irresistible. Her fingernails flick sharply over her clit and she feels herself making the steeper part of the ascent now, climax within reach.

“ _Ah_ ,” she whines—completely for herself, this time. The noises come as she loses herself in the build-up. Narcissa pushes on towards the precipice and then over it, giving in to the squeeze and flutter, letting the orgasm clear her mind of everything else for a moment. A few extra pushes throw her, properly shuddering, into aftershocks—and then she has come all that she cares to come.

Lucius’ breathing is laboured in the lull that follows. She removes the dildo with an ever-so-slight edge of gingerness. She supposes that in thanks for his encouragement towards the orgasm she’s just had, she should throw him a bone, so to speak.

“Come here,” she says, and watches, pleased, as he crawls on his knees. His gait is troubled by an obvious erection, and his ears are red as the new season of roses she’s been cultivating in the garden. “Take this,” she holds the slippery-ended baton towards her husband. “I’ve no further need of it.”

Lucius looks up at her, meeting her eyes hesitantly because experience has taught him this disobedience will offend her less than him speaking out of turn.

In answer to his silent question, she leans down to hold the glass in front of his mouth. His lips are bitten pink, and they part to take in the bulbous head of the dildo.

Narcissa does not stay to watch as he laps her fluids off it; she has already satisfied herself, and has no desire for further arousal in this moment.

“Good boy,” she says, deigning to give his shoulder a light pat on her way out.

ii.

When Lucius asks again, it is with a gift yet more optimistic.

The strap-on comes with luxurious veela-silk harnessing, charmed to self-fasten and adjust to the perfect tension. When Narcissa touches the shaft of it—also luxurious, both in its girth and its perfect polished shape—a spark of magic leaps across to her, asking to communicate. Asking for her to claim ownership of the item and all the pleasure that comes with it. She has no doubt that, were she to wear it while fucking another, she would feel it like an appendage of her own flesh and blood.

Narcissa Malfoy has never been one for phallic envy, but the exoticism of feeling through a foreign object is titillating enough.

Despite its compatibility with her sexual interests, the intention behind Lucius’ choice is hardly subtle, nor is it unselfish. His vice creeps through once again, shallow and impatient as a spoiled child. Which, of course, Lucius Malfoy _was_ every day until he became a spoiled man.

His angle is clear: if Narcissa is to use this strap-on, will she not need someone to fuck with it?

She takes a proper hold of the phallus this time, marvelling at the way her body heat seeps into the strange, firm substance of it. Its magic hums and vibrates, teasing along her spine until she shivers—a wordless croon of _Let yourself enjoy me, darling_. _Dirty up the both of us._

Lucius is off on his own ‘business’, as per usual, and all it takes for Narcissa to guarantee privacy is a quick flick of the hand to bar the door. She removes her robes slowly, not minding the wait. Lucius, she thinks, would do well to learn the value of anticipation—though if after all these years she has not been able to teach it to him, she doubts his ability to absorb the concept at all.

She undoes each button down the front of her tunic by hand, focusing intently on the tiny pearlescent fastenings. The smooth lining of the robes whooshes as her skirts fall down off her hips and pool around her feet. She unties her boots and eases her feet out of them. Nude, the large room is cold, so she adjusts the warming charms, taking the time to get just the right balance out of them; Narcissa likes it _just_ chilly enough to make her want to warm up.

When she slides a couple of fingers between her legs, they find a ready gathering of moisture. Sex is still much more pleasant with the assistance of a good lubricant nowadays, but the natural sign of her arousal is a gratifying start.

The cords of the strap-on’s harness are a complex web, but with the right positioning they wind themselves quite sensuously around her hips and buttocks. The item’s magic runs over her skin with an unbearably light feeling of friction, and her breath leaves her in one gentle punch.

Reaching down, she wraps her fingers around the cock and gives it a single, indulgent squeeze.

“Oh my,” she remarks to herself. Lucius must have gone to some trouble to acquire a piece like this.

Narcissa lies on the bed, then with a quick flick of her wand she turns the ceiling and walls to wet silver, reflecting her like a many-sided mirror. Narcissa admires herself from every angle before taking the strap-on off, setting it carefully aside for later.

When Lucius finally knocks, she lets him wait five minutes outside the door before acquiescing to her own desire to proceed.

“Come,” she instructs, lifting the room’s wards to accept him. “Shut the door behind you.”

Lucius does as he is told. Nevertheless, he steps towards the bed with an air of high-chinned expectation which must be stymied.

“Your robes,” she says, holding up a hand to stop his approach. “Remove them.”

The task takes him longer than it should. He is too busy trying to feast his eyes on her. Buttons catch in buttonholes instead of slipping cleanly out. His tunic turns inside out on its way over his head. Narcissa is unimpressed; dressing and undressing spells were quite literally child’s play for her. She could perform them _mid-coitus_ and make fewer mistakes.

“Have a drink,” she offers, floating an unlabelled vial of potion from the bedside table up to Lucius’ eye level. It’s a vintage polyjuice she came across while clearing out the cellars—not something one should be found in possession of while on probation, and certainly not something she would risk using outside her own home.

It would be a shame to waste it entirely, though; after twenty years of maturation the likeness will be long-lasting and flawlessly accurate.

“What is it?” Lucius asks, wary. He has stripped of his clothes but not his attitude, she is disappointed to see.

“Perfectly safe,” she responds coolly, then deigns to name him: “Lucius. This is part of the game.”

That gets his attention.

“Yes, or no?” she asks, looking him in the eye until he drops his gaze.

“Yes, Mistress.”

She does not tell him again to drink; just waits and watches as he does so.

Lucius doesn’t look too surprised when the ripples of transformation take hold of him. They are hardly violent, as they might be with a potion more recently brewed; he weathers them without complaint, breathing hard as he shrinks in stature, gains gentle curls in his hair, wider hips, rounder shoulders, small smooth breasts that sit neatly over his ribcage.

 _Her_ ribcage, rather. Narcissa looks at the new reflection of her own physicality—this time, not merely a looking-glass image.

“That’s better, isn’t it,” she muses. “Come here, beautiful. I want you to kiss me.”

Lucius moves swiftly, nearly toppling as he grows accustomed to his new centre of gravity. He stops when he reaches the edge of the bed. Narcissa strokes the silken sheet beside her and he climbs on, creamy thighs shaking ever so slightly, nipples tightening in the cool air. She can see goosebumps raising the fine, colourless hair on his arms. His eyes are crystalline and wide with dogged longing, blonde lashes curled, lips thin but soft and red. She takes them in her own—a featherlight press of temptation, designed to make him drip between the thighs. She knows exactly what her own body likes, wants, needs; today she wants to watch it descend into a quivering stupor the way only she could ever manage to make it.

Lucius sighs in Narcissa’s own sweet alto. The sound sinks into her, heating her blood, and she kisses him harder, chasing more like it. A bite of his lower lip, and he whines. A scratch of nails down his flank and he moans properly—then chokes on the sound as she brings her hand down hard on the underside of his arse. The pleasurable fizz of the impact spreads across her palm, and she watches pink blotches arise on Lucius’ skin with the help of her mirrored surroundings. Narcissa’s body has always bloomed beautifully when spanked—her distaste for submission makes it almost a waste.

She hits him again, harder this time, and he howls. Pink turns to red, and still she continues, the sound and sight of it making her feel molten inside.

“Lick me,” she says, too ready herself to keep her attention on him. “I want you to fuck me with my own tongue.”

Lucius scoots down the bed as Narcissa arranges herself, languidly propping a pillow beneath her neck so she can view the proceedings by looking ahead, glancing up, or turning her head towards the side wall.

“Get on with it,” she says as he bends down between her thighs, parting and lifting them with greedy hands. Narcissa tugs him down by the hair, nails biting into his scalp.

He eats her too softly at first, all slippery moisture. Another rough hair-pull grinds his nose and mouth into her. She groans, showing him how it ought to be done. When she releases his head, he sucks noisily at her clitoris, nuzzling it as he works his way to her opening. Watching herself like this has made her more than wet enough, but he pries her open with his tongue nonetheless, wriggling against the sensitive entrance until he can press it inside. He breathes with difficulty, inhaling musky air through his nose. When his pace slows, she holds his head in place and slides her own hips, chasing the friction, rubbing slick and spit over his chin, nose, cheek as her orgasm builds.

“Two fingers,” she orders, and he struggles to free a hand from its position supporting him on the bed. He collapses awkwardly onto his left shoulder as she continues to use his face, but his right hand valiantly crawls up to stroke along the outside of her labia. Narcissa lets up for a moment so that he has space to insert them.

“Suck,” she says, placing his mouth over her clitoris again. He complies with a delicious nip of teeth.

His hand begins to move, then. On the far wall, she just catches a glimpse of the ease with which his fingers enter her. Her lips are swollen and red just like his mouth, and her vagina envelops the digits like they’re nothing.

“Hurry up then; do it hard.”

The brief lull in her ascent ends when he starts to pump his fingers into her, each thrust burying them so forcefully that his other curled fingers slap the skin beneath her vulva.

Narcissa cries out as she climaxes, hands tangling the familiar, almost ethereally fine hair currently atop Lucius head and clenching hard enough that she comes away with strands wound around her fingers. He fucks her through it, until she shoves him away and lies back—boneless, sighing.

He waits. She keeps him waiting.

When she is ready, she reaches for the discarded strap-on. “Would you like me to use this?” she asks, grasping the phallus suggestively in one hand. There’s no transfer of sensation when she isn’t wearing it, which is fortunate given how hard she’s just come.

Lucius nods, fervently and speechlessly debauched in a way Narcissa’s face has never looked while she herself wears it. Even at her most ruined Narcissa projects class; Lucius, on the other hand, becomes a slavering crup.

“I think you ought to earn it,” she says. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he agrees. “Please, Mistress.”

Narcissa puts the strap-on down and summons Lucius’ first gift instead. The black box floats easily across the room; Narcissa has always been adept at simple wandless magic, but since the war she has barely needed a wand. She would need one if she were to fight, but to be seen fighting at all would be her downfall.

The glass dildo remains more delicate and tasteful than half of Narcissa’s heirloom jewellery.

“You will prepare your arse for me,” she informs her husband coolly, passing him the dildo. “You may use this, as a reward for your fine choice of gift.”

Narcissa watches as Lucius shudders under the praise. It’s all he’ll receive for now; too much and he might forget his place. Too much, and their arrangement will stop pleasing them both. He loves her humiliation so much he forgot, under the Dark Lord’s thrall, that _those_ orders, sneers and punishments were not the same.

She will not blame herself for that. She has never mistaken real life for an extension of her own fantasy.

She watches him hesitate at her instruction. He isn't averse to anal play, but has probably assumed she’ll be taking advantage of the parts his usual body does not offer.

She will be soon, of course, but it remains foolish of him to try and predict her.

“Lubricant is in my dresser,” she says, once again arranging herself for comfort and maximum viewing pleasure.

He gets up and fetches it, still clutching the dildo like he’s afraid she’ll decide he doesn’t deserve it before he can work it inside himself. Ordinarily she might, on a whim—or perhaps even petrify and use him for her pleasure, then leave him to thaw slowly, desperately—but such deprivation plays better to the preferences of his body, not hers.

“Don’t waste too much,” she says, like they’ve any reason to be frugal. “Now get down onto the floor. You’ll squat, and when you’re prepared, you may sit.”

Lubricant in one hand and dildo in the other, Lucius clambers off the bed and lowers himself to the lush carpet next to Narcissa’s bed.

“Not there,” she snaps. “In the corner.”

In the corner, there is nothing to soften the black hardwood floors. She lets him sink gingerly to his knees before reminding him that she has invited him to _squat_ , not to _kneel_.

The two mirrored walls meeting behind him give her an excellent view of the way her own thighs tense as he bends, hunching over his knees to remain balanced.

“Better. Now begin—or I’ll take that lubricant away, since you don’t appear to need it.”

Furiously, Lucius fumbles with the lid, his dainty hand overfull with both the dildo and the bottle resting in his palm. He manages it without dropping anything; even at his most dim-witted, he knows better than to spill mess on her floors, or smash a precious belonging.

With sticky hands, he places the bottle of lubricant upright on the floor. With the hand not holding the dildo, he reaches around behind himself. Buttocks already flexed, the dusty pink ring of his arsehole is reflected to Narcissa as he plays with it. He circles and rubs, spreading the clear gel before finally pushing the tip of a finger in.

His forehead creases with an additional layer of strain as he wriggles the finger past the tight resistance of his anus. He bites his lip to muffle a cry when he begins to pull it in and out, the shiny pink ring widening reluctantly with each pass of his second knuckle.

“Another,” she says, before he can get too comfortable.

The single finger withdraws, and Lucius returns with two. He struggles to accept the second, squeezing his eyes shut and giving Narcissa a brilliant view of what her own complexion would look like if she ever allowed herself to go a mottled red. When the fingers finally make it through the tight ring of muscle, he works quickly to accommodate them. He’s begun to wobble on the spot, thighs and knees unwilling to stay in the uncomfortable position. Breathing heavy and broken, he fucks himself with wet strokes until his hole is sufficiently loose.

“Sit,” she permits him.

He brings the dildo underneath himself with a trembling hand, crouching more deeply until one end of the glass rod touches the floor and the other presses against his empty, winking arsehole. He groans helplessly as he lowers his weight, the dildo slowly impaling him. His arse swallows each curve and rib of it, and Narcissa’s arousal is properly ignited once again as the last section of the dildo pipe is sucked inside, leaving Lucius’s arse against the floor, the base of the dildo flat between bare skin and bare wood.

It’s certainly a sight—but he isn’t best positioned to show her what he’s doing for her.

“Get on your hands and knees,” she tells him. He does, back straightening and arse clenching as he carefully turns over with the toy still clutched tight inside him. “I want to see your holes.”

His arms shake, elbows faltering as he dutifully presents himself to her. He hangs his head, a telltale flush glowing in his ears. Now that he is well attended to, Narcissa thinks it might be time for her to pleasure herself again.

She leaves Lucius in position while she puts on the harness. The strap-on cock nestles against her pubic hair as its magical nerve endings come alive once more. Giving it a restrained squeeze, she hums to herself with satisfaction and steps down from the bed. She kicks Lucius’ legs far enough apart that she can place a pillow down to cushion her own knees. Hovering over him, she nudges the cock’s head against the opening of his empty cunt and presses until it pops inside. The rest of its length follows, inexorable and merciless, until her belly meets his buttocks and the hard base of the glass dildo still buried in him presses against her skin. 

Lucius whimpers and his arms give way. His elbows hit the floor with two sharp raps, and with the change in angle Narcissa can feel the solid glass toy filling his arse against her own cock, only the silky internal wall separating the two thick rods stuffing him full. He’s blubbering now, face against his forearms, practically drooling onto the floor—and he’s barely even been fucked yet.

Narcissa pulls her hips back and thrusts. He squeals, a strangled sound that has her repeating the harsh movement again and again. The tight squeeze around her cock is intoxicating, yes, but more than that is this glimpse of him melting down so messily. He needs this, needs her to do it. She is the only one who can—who _would_ —put him back together after breaking him.

Screaming gives way to silent tears, and Narcissa wrenches his head up by the nape hair so that she can see his face in the mirror. Her own face: red-eyed, fat-lipped and sticky with salt. She comes again when Lucius convulses fitfully, clawing at the ground like an animal, sobbing through his own unfamiliar orgasm.

When she goes to bathe, Narcissa leaves him there, boneless on the floor of her room. This is a kindness: wordless permission to stay, should he require it. When she is done in the bathroom, she finds him coiled, naked and himself again, around the pillow she left. His breath is the gentle snuffling of a sleeping child. It is almost enough to send a rush of endearment through her.

iii.

Lucius’ best gift is in fact a letter from Draco.

Narcissa reads it at the breakfast table, while Lucius peruses the _Prophet_ for gossip.

 _Dearest Mother,_ it begins, as his missives always do. _I hope you are well; we are better each day. Thank you for the truffles and tea you sent, as well as for what I can only assume has been your intervention with Father. He wrote to us yesterday! The letter was barely even homophobic, all things considered. You know that I have already come to terms with the prospect of his eternal disapproval—but for the first time in many months I am hopeful that we might actually repair things someday soon. With love from Draco._

Carefully, she puts down the parchment.

“Lucius,” she says, waiting for him to lower the broadsheet in his hands.

“Yes?”

“Share my bed tonight.”

It is not a question, nor is it really an offer. It is acknowledgement; acceptance of the apology he has set in motion. Of the forgiveness he seeks _without_ begging, and the love he makes _without_ touching.

He only nods, but Narcissa knows the smile he hides behind his paper without seeing it. She picks up the hot, well-buttered toast on her plate and takes a satisfied bite.


End file.
